


Volume of her unknown

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [15]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal, F/M, Mentions of verbal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal asks Bedelia about her parents.





	Volume of her unknown

“What was your family like?”

Bedelia’s hand pauses over the half-opened lid of her night cream and her eyes move to look at Hannibal reflected in the mirror of her vanity.

“What prompted this inquiry?” she watches as he leaves the bathroom, patting himself dry with a towel.

“I have been talking about my parents a lot,” he folds the towel and places it neatly aside, “I feel selfish in that regard.”

Bedelia smiles and opens the jar. He has been sharing many memories with her lately; now that the demons of his past have been put to rest, he is free to explore the once haunted rooms in his memory palace, now welcoming him afresh.

“You are not selfish,” she dips her fingers in the cream and starts spreading it on her face, “I am happy you are at peace with your past. Besides, this is your childhood home, it is only natural it stirs forgotten moments.”

Hannibal frowns.

“This is _our home_ ,” he corrects her at once and Bedelia feels a sudden warmth blooming on her cheek, “The more reason for me to get to know your past.”

“You know my past,” she responds, her hands now applying cream on her neck in long motions.

“But I know hardly anything about your family,” he persists, stepping closer to her vanity, “I know you have a sister who lives with her family in… Boston?”

“Yes,” she finishes her skin routine, massaging the surplus of cream into her palms, and removes the pin holding her hair up and away from her face. It falls in a cascade of locks over her silk robe, “White picket fence and all.”

“Different lifestyle choices,” Hannibal comments, hearing the slight disdain in her voice.

“To say the least,” she smiles and picks up a brush, holding it out.

Hannibal moves swiftly, taking the brush from her hand and sitting next to her.

“What about your parents?” he asks while his fingers slowly separate the strands on her hair.

“It is a rather mundane tale,” she closes her eyes as he begins to brush her hair with deliberate care, “A picture-perfect family who was distant and cold in reality.

The brush pauses briefly then resumes the languid strokes.

“You weren’t close with any of your parents?”

“My father was always supportive of me in a way, even if he was never a doting person. My mother-” she takes a deep breath, “well, we have never seen eye to eye.”

Hannibal says nothing, sensing the tension how slowly settling in her arms. He continues to brush her hair and she sighs quietly, relaxing under his attention, head now heavy on her shoulders. She does not know how much time has passed when he finally sets the brush aside and caps the finished task with a kiss on her temple.

Opening her eyes, she watches him move to settle himself in their bed, leaving the cover lifted, a gentle invitation for her to join him. She peels of her robe and drapes it across the back of her chair, then slips under the sheets, soft cotton skimming across her naked skin. But she does not rest her head on the pillow, her mind suddenly delving into the memories she had buried a long time ago.

“What it is?” Hannibal asks immediately, seeing her resting on her forearm, her gaze unexpectedly pensive.

“It is-,” she hesitates, lost in her thoughts, “nothing.”

Hannibal’s stare does not falter as he observes her more keenly now.

“It is not nothing, Bedelia,” he states firmly, and she knows he will not be swayed.

“I was thinking about my mother,” she admits, still reluctantly, “She always knew how to make it clear that was not enough.”

The admission burns bitterly on her tongue and she averts her gaze; dwelling on the past has never her _indulgence_.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Hannibal lifts himself up into a sitting position, eagerness to ease her melancholia pouring from his eyes.

“You are not my psychiatrist, Hannibal,” she declares as pieces of her former stubbornness and self-imposed distance rise from their ashes, but they are flimsy and out of place.

“I am not, and you are not mine either,” Hannibal is not dispirited by her defensive words, “You are my wife.”

He reaches his hand out as though to prove his point, gently cupping her face and caressing her cheek. Bedelia briefly closes her eyes, melting into his touch, the ghost of her reservations vanishing without a trace.

“My mother had a way with words,” she starts quietly while Hannibal’s hand still strokes her skin, relaxing and encouraging, “She would never criticize me in a direct way, but every remark she made was always laced with a hidden rebuke.”

Her voice trails off as she remembers her mother’s tone, fake saccharin hiding the taste of arsenic.

_After all I have done for you…_

“She made sure I knew she was the victim here and I was to blame.”

“Did it happen often?” Hannibal prompts.

“Yes,” the confession pains her more than she expected. She has never admitted it to anyone before.

“Did you father know?”

A dry chuckle escapes her lips.

“He did, but it was not in his nature to confront anyone, least of all my mother.”

She recalls her father’s placid expression and countless hours spent in his office, away from home.

“What about your sister? Was she affected?”

“I am sure she was, to an extent, but she was always the favourite one, fulfilling all of my parents’ expectations,” new resentment resurfaces in her mind.

“Perhaps she followed that path to appease your mother? Everyone has a different way of dealing with abuse.”

The thought has never occurred to her before; she was too busy fighting her own battle.

“I don’t imagine your sister, or anyone else for that matter, being as strong and true to themselves as you,” he continues, his fingers gently grazing her neck, and both the touch, and his words warm her significantly.

“When she found out I was planning to go to medical school, she cried for two days, refusing to talk to me, claiming I have ruined her life,” her voice breaks, catching in her throat, and she feels Hannibal’s hand squeezing her hand, only now noticing it is shaking.

“I am so sorry,” he says softly, holding her hand steadily until the tremble subsides.

Bedelia feels unexpectedly calm and somehow lighter, as if a heaviness she did not know she was carrying with her has been lifted.

“It is not your fault,” she entwines her fingers with his, stroking his hand in turn.

“It is not your fault either,” Hannibal lies down again and pulls her with him.

She presses her head in the favoured spot on his chest, easing into the familiar embrace.

“I am not going to say that you are more than enough because I am certain you already know that,” he whispers, placing kisses along her hairline.

Bedelia lifts her head, pretended reproach in her narrowed gaze.

“When will you grow tired of complimenting me?” she attempts to sound stern, but her smile gives her away.

“When you will stop deserving them, which is never,” he proclaims with all seriousness.

Despite her best efforts, she feels another blush advancing under her skin and she rests her head anew, trying to conceal it.

“Thank you,” she utters, barely audible against his skin and hums in delight as Hannibal’s arms enfold her completely.

This is the only home she has ever needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the anon who had sent me the headcanon that inspired this story. I really enjoyed writing this! It got my out of my gloom.


End file.
